


if you wanna use me up and leave me in the bed

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: 'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all [1]
Category: Descent Into Avernus - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: (one of them is wearing most of a set of half plate), (the incubus is pretty much naked), Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bloodplay, Body Modification, Clothed Sex, D&D Campaign based, Demon Sex, Demon cock, Descent into Avernus, Dirty Talk, Hot And Desperate, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Mentions of Ghasts, Not pictured: The party, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, S&M, Semi-Public Sex, Shadar-Kai, Shaking Their Heads In Disappointment, Succubi & Incubi, Verbal Humiliation, bad life choices, dick piercings, ish, literally just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: In a campaign of Descent Into Avernus, an incubus, threatened into helping the adventuring party, offers their Oathbreaker Paladin shadow-elf a no-strings-attached tumble. It takes him a bit to talk his way around said elf's distrust, but he succeeds, and while the party isn't paying attention, they sneak away for a quick fuck.TL;DR: A literal sex fiend fucks a desperate pain-slut elf and a good time is had all around. Plain PWP.
Relationships: Faltrax the Incubus/OC
Series: 'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920727
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	if you wanna use me up and leave me in the bed

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Divide The Day's song "Fuck Away the Pain"
> 
> There are some references to somewhat esoteric D&D lore in the text. You don't need to understand them to enjoy the porn, but just in case you'd like to, I've put some information into the end notes!
> 
> dramatis personae:  
> \- Faltrax, the incubus  
> \- Dread, the shadow-elf

He smells delicious.

The scent of want is always the drop of blood to your metaphorical shark. And he exudes it, is cloaked in it, this ‘Dread’. You know a man who wants, a man who needs, with just a glance and oh, what a meal he’d make, even if his soul is a flayed, ragged thing straining against the steel that bars it in. Oh, that steel. The things you could do to him.

His front is cold and callous and nonchalant. Of course, he means it when he says he’d kill you. But you’ve managed to keep yourself alive in the fires of Avernus. So you talk your way out of immediate death. As you do.

Everyone eyes you, obviously. Most with somewhere between disgust and distrust. The little drow and the slightly less little drow. The big hobgoblin. The humans. You suppose the drider couldn’t care less for you, but spider isn’t very much your type, anyway.

That shadar-kai, though. It’s not that he just eyes you, it’s that he’s eyeing you. You can feel the gaze of his fathomless eyes on you like a touch, a weight, a plea. It’s the one thing that makes the soul-squirming discomfort of being carried about like a ragdoll by the drider bearable.

It’s much better when they let you walk. Even more when that elf follows you like a shadow, like he’s something stalking and hungry. Like he’s in charge. It’s rather endearing.

He’s an excellent liar. You’d bet that when he wakes (if he sleeps at all), he dresses himself in deception before he puts on any clothes at all. If you were anything but what you are, you’d buy it, that he’s tough and self-sufficient and that declining this opportunity is just a minor disappointment.

But you are an incubus and you can tell from the tattoos on his face and the posture of his neck and the smell, the desperate, shadowy smell of him, that he just really wants to be owned, to be made someone else’s, even if only for a few minutes. The weight on his shoulders, on his frayed and tattered soul, has left him craving, gagging for it. He’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth, the wretch, the wreck.

You want to take him apart.

And oh, unholy blessings on chance, the opportunity does present itself. Everyone goes to deal with some human child or whatever it is they’re faffing about now. And Dread, accompanied by a stinking and utterly obedient ghast that he leaves just out the window, takes up watch.

Watching you. For any sign of escape and whatnot. Sure, you could try, but your odds are shit. Especially with that bow-wielding spider fellow. Better to show them where they need to go and abscond.

And then sell the intelligence on them to the highest bidder, obviously.

But until then, the first priority is staying alive. The second is getting your dick wet, because you’re a gods-damned incubus, and this is what you do.

“I mean,” you say quietly and Dread looks up, “they’re all out there.” You look over to meet his blank eyes, masked with whatever magic keeps his undead servant obedient. “We’re in here alone.”

“So we are,” says Dread and blinks at you once, slowly, like an owl. The magic mask feathers when his eyes shut. It’s rather pretty. You grin at him, raise an eyebrow. His blank stare doesn’t give you much to work with and that’s all the bastard says.

“Come on. You said you think I’m pretty.” You strike a bit of a pose, the kind that drags the eye down to your hips, and oops, are your glamoured clothes a little too tight for decency?

“Yes, I did,” Dread confirms, infuriatingly unmoved. In his face, at least. He’s very, very good at keeping a blank face. But he can’t hide the way the energy of his arousal spikes when you pop another button on your shirt. “Look,” continues Dread, “the rest of the party is right outside. The door is open. … They’ll notice. I’m a screamer.”

“You’re not convincing me otherwise, here,” you point out, entirely reasonable. You could have him howling for you loud enough for half of Avernus to hear, for fuck’s sake! The shit is winding you up on purpose, you swear. There’s a blank smugness to him, hardly even tucked away; he’s getting his ego stroked by being a cocktease. To a fucking incubus.

Dammit, they were right. You have terrible taste.

“I know,” says Dread, and the blank smugness turns to actual smugness, a shit-eating grin seeping into his expression. His empty eyes burn, even with the studied nonchalance of his posture. It’s not a no. You don’t need to go messing around in his mind—he wants. It’s thick in the air.

The two of you stare at each other across the room, tension zinging between you.

“Come onnn,” you prompt. If he wasn’t so hesitant about you being a devil, he’s have been on your dick _hours_ ago. The shit actually snickers to himself. And the scent spikes again. Oh, he enjoys being a cocktease. And if you had to guess, you’d guess that the fact you’re a literal sex fiend does make him even more smug about it.

“You’re missing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you know,” you try again. Shift your weight to show you off, easier and more natural than breathing, even in these stifling clothes. You’d stop if he expressed disinterest, you really would—you haven’t hit on the spider fellow even once, or on either of the actual drow—but he’s eating you alive with his eyes. You’d give anything for a look inside his head, to know what he’s actually imagining he could do to you. What you could do to him. “I know you’re thinking about it, you know. I know you want it. I know why you want it. I can smell it on you.” You inhale, deep and luxurious, lips apart, taste it at the tip of your tongue, in the back of your throat. “Let me drag your soul back into your body. I won’t touch it.”

There’s a curious stillness to him, then. Like he’s really considering what you said at him. A long blink of those black eyes. And then, he pushes off the wall, his entire posture... somehow more and less guarded at once. No pretence of relaxation any more.

“Fuck it,” says Dread. “I’m gonna offer you an agreement.”

Seven Hells, yes. He’s going to hurt so pretty, just for you. You can’t wait to get your claws in him.

“We go to what passes for upstairs in these ruins and fuck. And if you try any stupid shit, if you drain me and feed on me,” here Dread plucks a knife from his belt, wicked-sharp and gleaming, “I will kill you. You stick to what you said, no draining, self-fucking-control, or the consequence is that you die by my blade with no delay.” Normally, that’s a pretty demanding arrangement and you’d bristle at his authoritative tone, but if this ultimatum is what he needs to be comfortable? You’ll take it.

“I agree to your terms,” you purr. “No draining, no feeding. Just some good clean fun.”

“Upstairs, then,” he says with a dismissive gesture and turns to his ghast. You go upstairs while he gives it some instruction—your Elvish is rusty, but you think he tells it to guard the door—and find a nice flat block of rubble to sit on. And drop the clothes glamour. The freedom is a breath of freshness, the comfort of your skin unlike any other. Your wings unfurl behind you and you stretch them out luxuriously, then tuck them back together all neat and tidy. Leave the horns out? Or put them away?

Before you can make a choice one way or the other, Dread’s coming up the stairs, stripping off his gauntlets. He’s got nice hands, long-fingered and nimble, criss-crossed with scars from that atrocious soulsnare he carries.

He stops in front of you, between your knees, drops his spiked chain next to his foot. Leaves his dagger on his belt, an obvious failsafe. You run your fingers up his breastplate and hook them over the metal at his neck.

“Now,” you breathe, meet his blank black eyes. “Tell me. What can I do to you?” How will he let you take him apart, piece by shaking piece?

Instead of words, you get your answer in the solid clank of his armoured knees hitting the floor in front of you, the cool, dry touch of his hands first on your knees, then up your thighs. He must run colder than most mortals. Not enough soul to keep him warm. Lucky you’re a furnace—you’re gonna melt him inside.

“Gorgeous,” you say, run your fingertips over his cheekbone, along the teardrop tattoo. When you tap your thumb to his lower lip, he opens easy, kitten-licks the pad of your thumb, first with one tongue-tip, then the other. You’ve had a fair amount of forked tongues on you—serpent-like fiends and yuan-ti and the occasional lizardfolk come to mind—but the surgical split is new to you. Long, long healed to him. And so very deft.

“I wanna suck your cock,” he says, his voice thick with want. “Hands in my hair. Pull. Choke me on it. I don’t need much breath. Tap out when I need to.” He claps his hand against the outside of your thigh twice. That’s a clear enough signal for you.

“Ah. First, I want to see what that tongue can do, pet.”

Dread rolls his eyes at the endearment—there’s no change in his actual eyes, but the head tilt and eyebrows get the point across—but does take your thumb between his tongue-tips, flexes against you. Oh, that’s maddening. Delightful. Needs to be on you, like, yesterday. You uncover your cock with your free hand and note the way his eyes widen. Most likely at the tapered tip and ridged shaft. That’s the look of someone you could get to beg you for it.

But that seems like a great way to push Dread back to standoffish ground, right now, so you don’t. Not when he swallows hard because his mouth waters at the sight of your dick firming against your thigh.

“Show me what you’ve got,” you purr and tangle your hand in his feathery-soft raven hair, guide him closer.

Dread needs no further encouragement. In fact, he goes for your cock like a man starved. You drag your nails along his scalp while he laves attention on you and he shudders deliciously under your hands. Hells, he’s a feast. And delightful between your legs. His quick tongue has you fully hard in no time with the way he drags the studs in his tongue along the ridges of your cock, smears his lips over the tip in a messy facsimile of a kiss, traps you between those maddening tongue-tips with delightful pressure. You don’t miss the way his eyes flutter closed when he takes in the girth of you, the way he measures you up in his hand. You’re an incubus. You do not fucking disappoint.

You let him hear your pleasure. Not too loud, not with his allies just outside, but you give him quick breaths and satisfied groans whenever he does something particularly enlightened with his mouth, just to spur him on. An incentive, if you will. And he takes it, his hand sure at the base of your dick, takes the incentive and your length in turn.

Lords, if his quick and clever tease was delightful, him actually taking you into his mouth proper and sucking you off like he’s getting paid is a whole other plane. He cradles your cock with his split tongue, lets the piercings catch against each ridge of your dick with a toe-curling drag, sucks you off with a single-minded determination like he’s the one going for your soul via sex.

Princes below, but he’s fucking good at it.

Not just that. It’s always a delight, you think as you knot your fingers in his choppy hair and drag him down, to fuck someone who is good at sex. But even better is to fuck someone who loves it. And you haven’t had anyone in ages who loves sucking cock as much as this elf does. You can taste it in the air, just behind your teeth, how hard he’s getting off on this.

Just for fun, you tug at his hair again, pull him deep enough that he gags. He doesn’t make a move to pull off, just powers through and as soon as he’s clear, he moans around you, an exhale through his nose coloured with how much he fucking likes it.

Even without, you could tell. The mouthwatering scent of his arousal spikes every time you force him down, thickens the harder your grip on his hair gets. Oh, you want him to howl your name and maybe cry a little with how hard you make him come. If only you had more time. His eyes water already, anyway, with you choking him.

There’s a weird clicking and shuffling sound which takes you a moment to place, but then you realise it’s Dread, one hand still on your thigh in case he needs to breathe, the other tugging at whatever laces and clasps keep his half-plate on his legs. His progress halts every time you drag him down again, especially when you wrap your hands around the base of his skull and hold him there until he trembles with the need to draw breath. You can scent the salt of his pre and wonder how wet he’s got his garments when he finally, finally gets a hand on his own dick with a slump in the tension of his posture.

Again, you pull him forward, all relaxed now, like a puppet in your grasp. He swallows around you heavy, gags when you go to deep, chokes around you—the tension rises again in his shoulders as he fights against the urge to cough, then recedes when he powers through, warm and wet around you and quaking with the need for air. The strain is purely physical. None of it is on his pretty face, eyes closed, just giving in to you, giving up for you. You hold him down while he shakes until his hand twitches against your thigh, a second from tapping out, and then you let go, let him pull back and cough and gasp for air, each frantic breath tinged with a moan.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you purr, drag your nails just behind his knife-ears where it makes him shudder, “oh, you darling whore. Can’t stand it? Getting your rocks off on sucking devil cock so hard you just have to get a hand on yourself?”

His black eyes flutter open to meet your gaze and he drags his tongue along your length luxuriously, then strokes himself in a lasting motion like he’s revelling in the weight of you in his mouth. He’s hardly even ashamed, flushed as he is from the exertion. Not the kind of man who gets off on embarrassment itself—you’d be surprised if he feels it at all—but on the humiliation? The way he tongues at you, as if to spur you on, says yes.

“I’ll have to be careful not to ruin you for humans,” you tell him, voice all low and silky. “With the mouth on you, how do you go without dropping to your knees for every other mortal you see on the street? Hells, you’ll be disappointed to go back, with how much you love choking on fat fiend cock. Look at you, on your knees for me. You were made for this. Made to be a fiend’s little whore, best when you’re on your knees with your mouth full.” You pull him off you, and you genuinely have to pull—he strains against your grip on his hair, mouth open and tongue out, a string of saliva snapping between his tongue-tip and your dick. Dread moans, a wet and wanting sound, and jerks himself off harder, still arching towards your cock. It’s immensely gratifying. You love a good slut.

“I love a good slut.” You stuff two fingers into his mouth and he immediately swirls his tongue around them in the same quick rhythm that he’s beating off with. “I’d love to keep you for hours. Imagine how many different ways I could take you, take you apart. Bend you over any and every bit of furniture, if I had you for a night.” Dread whimpers around your fingers, clearly picturing it. Arousal streams off him in waves, so plentiful you can just snack on the threads of it without needing to put effort into draining him. Delicious.

“But we don’t have hours,” you continue. “If you don’t want your companions to stumble in on you with my hands in your hair and my cock down your throat—“ Dread shudders hard and squeezes his eyes shut, oh my— “then we have to hurry. Want to keep sucking me off? Or shall I bend you over and raw you absolutely senseless?”

“Gods,” gasps Dread when you remove your fingers from his mouth. “Lolth’s pendulous spider-tits. Fuck me.” He gets to his feet, his knees just a breath shaky, and works on more buckles and straps at his waist. You rise with him, one hand still twisted in his hair, and dip the other hand under his clothes, trapped tight against his skin under chainmail and fabric, until you can trace the diagonal bars in his skin over his hips.

Dread almost swoons against you, gasps again with his mouth wet and open. You lean in, to taste him wet and messy, to plunder his clever, clever mouth, but before you make contact, he strains to turn his head away.

“No,” he pants and you slacken your grip on his hair, stop petting over his hipbone.

“No?”

“Just— no kissing. The rest is fine.” He finagles another buckle loose with a sigh of finality and drops his tassets where he stands, seems to ground himself back in the room a little more. Slipping out of the pleasant headspace you got him in before. “The rest is good. No kissing–“ He fumbles a small phial of oil from his pocket, presses it into your hand, “here. Fuck me. Make me take it.” His blank eyes burn into yours, sharp with the mouthwatering intensity of his lust.

“No kissing,” you confirm, let go of his hair. A gentle push has him crossing over to the remains of a countertop, with you hot on his heels. “I’m going to treat you so well regardless. I’ll give you what you want, pet, you’re gonna look so pretty all spread open for me.”

Dread almost trembles under you and shucks his gear and leggings down to his knees. His mail and shirt ride up, give you a view of the counterpoint to his hip bars—piercings set in the dimples on his back, an eye-catching glint of steel either side of his spine. The oil he gave you isn’t fancy, but it’s serviceable, so you slick up your hand generously.

It gets to people a lot (and to Dread specifically) when you fuck them and tell them it’s like this is their purpose, like they were made for it. But you? You actually were, quite literally, made for this, engineered by magic to be the absolute best at fucking people.

You drop to your knees behind him, get your slick hand on his balls and drag your tongue up the crack of his ass all the way to his hole. And because you’re a gods-damned incubus, literally made for this, you have tongue for _days_. Dread whimpers in surprise at the wet drag of way more tongue than he was anticipating and lets his head hang. If your mouth wasn’t busy, you would grin. As it is, you just look particularly smug while you play your oil-slick hand over his balls and eat him out like it’s your last day alive.

He whines for you when you drag your tongue over his rim, lick him open firm and insistent—‘make me take it,’ he’d said, and Princes Below, you can do that. You distract him with more sensation, tracing your fingers over every rung of his jacob’s ladder. Tapping your fingernail against the metal barbells makes him shake with a skittery, nervy pleasure. You believe him when he says he’s a screamer; it feels like he’s clinging to his self control by the skin of his teeth, barely keeping it down to whimpers and low moans bitten into his knuckles.

His control cracks a little when your questing hand reaches the head of his dick and starts messing with the thick ring through the head. You flick it side to side and he quakes under you, his thighs straining like he’s trying to spread his legs further for you, but he’s hobbled by his trousers around his knees. When you push and ripple your quite literally fiendish tongue to lick him from the inside, he muffles a loud “Hnng!” against his forearm.

“I like all the pretty metal you have in you, pet,” you tell him as you straighten up behind him, slick your fingers again and work two of them inside him. A tremor of tension runs through Dread, but he manages to bite down whatever noise he was tempted to make. “So much fun to play with. I could spend hours messing with it. And there’s more under all that armour, isn’t there?” You run your hand over his breastplate and he nods.

“Yes,” he gasps, breathless. His dick drips with pre. “Collarbones. Nipples. Long rows for corsets. They look pretty all laced up.”

“Oh, you _gift_ ,” you purr, rock your fingers deeper into him. “I’d like you wrapped like a present. Put some tension on the ribbons. So you can’t forget they’re there. Tug on them while I fuck you.” You drag your fingernails over the inside of his thigh and he shudders hard.

“You can draw blood,” Dread tells you. It’s way out of the blue for such a distrustful little elf, but then again. The naked, raw desperation in front of you is worlds away from the standoffish warrior who blew your cover. And desperate he is, rocking back on your fingers with gusto.

“Can I?” You crook them just right and watch his knees turn to butter. Your fingernails on the other hand sharpen into points against his thigh, press into the skin until it blanches. “Wouldn’t want to breach our agreement. I’m having way too much fun.”

“Fuck, don’t make me beg for it,” Dread curses and makes another futile attempt to spread his legs further. “And fuck me already. I can heal myself if I need to, I want to feel every ridged devil inch of you!”

You twist your fingers inside him, drag your knuckles over his prostate.  
“What if I’d like you to beg?”

“Put it _in_ me, you twice-misbegotten whoreson!”

“You say the sweetest things,” you remark drily, but there isn’t really time to argue—usually you wouldn’t really care if someone’s friends walked in while you’re ploughing them into the nearest surface, but Dread’s squad seems a little too volatile (and armed too the teeth) to chance it. So you upend the oil over your dick, manhandle Dread into the right angle by his hips and start pushing into him with insistent thrusts.

Fuck, but he’s tight. If he wasn’t a pain-slut, you’d spend so much more time opening him up, but as it is, you do as he asked and make him take it. Dread stifles choked-up sounds into his palm and Lords, he’s still rocking back against you insistently, matching your thrusts to take you deeper.

His arousal is so thick in the air you can’t taste anything but. After what feels like a century and about five seconds at once, you bottom out, your hips flush with his ass, and dig your claws into his hips.

“Oh, the meal I could make of you, the feast.” You lean in, drag your teeth along his neck, your nose along his jawline, inhale him. You can taste the energy, the want on the roof of your mouth, at the back of your throat, thick and spicy and mouthwatering. It would take just a tug to unspool him like a thread, and that knowledge is almost as delicious as the actual thing. “You’re such a wanton thing I could pass you around my brothers and we could all have our fill.”

Dread thinks about it. He very clearly pictures it, because you can feel him clench around you, and he can’t hide the soft, choked noise that he makes. You bring your hand, the one not covered in slick, up, trace up his neck and stroke silk-light over the rings through his bottom lip. He tips his chin forward to take your fingers in his mouth again, licks at them in a comforting rhythm.

“Like that, do you,” you murmur, feather the words into the delicate, oft-inked skin of his neck. “Could give you something proper to suck on, if we had more around. Would you like that, pet? Be a good slut, let one fuck your pretty mouth while another fills you up just how you like? As many hands in your hair as you want, lace up your back all pretty and hold tight while we take you apart?”

Dread doesn’t reply, too busy playing his tongue around your fingertips, but the catch in his breath, the arch of his spine are answer aplenty. He shifts against you a little and you take your cue to rock your hips against his. It takes a firm motion to coax the tight clutch of his body to let you grind even a little, but oh, the shake of his legs tells you all you need to know. The drag of your fat, ridged cock balls-deep inside him is exactly what your slut here wants. So you clutch his hip harder, claws pressing into his grey skin, and fuck into him again, insistent and demanding.

The noise he makes for you is the closest to divine a fiend like you will ever feel. He whines a thin reedy sound when you rock into him, his breath catches in tandem with the way each ridge of your dick catches on his rim when you draw back. You pull your teeth along the curve of his neck, breathe him in, the filling, satisfying drench of lust that pulses off him in waves each time you bottom out.

“Perfect,” you tell him, press the word into his jawline and your fingers down his tongue. He gags and his eyes tear up again, but he doesn’t choke, just presses his tongue up and his throat clicks when he swallows around you. “You take me so well. And you smell so fucking good. The envy of any of my brothers, you horny, desperate slut, it’s a gift I got my eyes on you before any of them.” Each thrust goes a little easier than the last as you fuck him open, warm and wet and loose. You want to leave him dripping. “Wonder how many times I could make you spend, just like this.”

A lot, probably. His dick, heavy between his legs, is drooling pre with the way you drag the curve of your cock across his prostate hard. You suck a dull mark into his neck and draw back, put both of your hands on his hips, dig your thumbs into the meat of his ass. He’s spread around you so pretty—you could watch the way he takes your dick all fucking day. With his mouth free, he gasps like you’ve punched the very air from his lungs, now that you can pull him on your cock twice as hard.

“I’ll make you come so hard it’ll be all you think about when you touch yourself at night for _months_ ,” you growl, seat yourself deep inside of him again, watch his entire form rock with the sensation of it. “You feel good, pet? You like the way I fuck you? Desperate bitch, begging to be bent over the closest bit of rubble? Tell me. Say my name.”

“Fuck you,” Dread gasps, chokes on another moan. You dig your claws into his thighs hard on your next thrust, feel the resistance of his skin under your claws, feel it break. Blood wells up, dark and sluggish, wet on your fingertips. Dread sobs with it, tightens up around you like a vice, throws his head back. You want to put your teeth to his neck again, mark that elegant arch until there’s no denying the claim you’ve laid to him.

So you do, drape yourself across his back and rut into him hard, bite along the strung-out tendons of his neck, put love-bites on him as purple as his tattoos. You drag your fingertips along his thighs, smear the blood around in tacky tracks, dig your claws into the swell of his ass—but don’t press hard enough to break.

“Say it,” you demand, lips against the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend. You want to be mine, just for a bit, I can _smell_ it on you. All you have to do is beg me for it, pet, and I’ll let you have it.”

Dread shudders under you, pushes back against you as insistently as he can manage with shaking arms and legs. His self-control cracks, then shatters, crumbles into frit at his feet.

“Fuck you,” he curses, then something in language you don’t know, but with the tone of an expletive. “Do it,” in Common again, “put your claws in me, please fucking do it, make me hurt, make me feel it–“ You grin against his neck, lick your lips, drink in the sensation of his submission– “Faltrax, fuck me, make me _take_ it,” and you do. You fucking do.

You rake your claws up his ass, leave thin lines of beading blood in your wake. It wells up sluggish and slow and just a hint too dark, but he’s shadow-touched, so you don’t give it a mind, just dig your fingers into his hips again, your thumbs into his ass and fuck him within an inch of his life. It’s easier, now; you can fuck into him with hardly any effort, loose and slick, noisy with how much oil you used. Dread howls at the sensation, shakes violently against you as you raw him among the ruins and the rubble. He pants and gasps and repeats “Yes, yes, yes, more” like an invocation, like a prayer, and you give it to him hard and fast and deep. Without you clutching at his middle, he’d probably collapse, ragdoll to the floor, you’re fucking ruining him and it’s delicious. He’s so close you can taste it on his skin when you drag your tongue up his neck.

“Touch yourself,” you order. You’d bar an arm across his chest to keep him upright, but with the armour he’s too heavy. Instead, Dread just lets his upper body slump onto the countertop, head on his forearm, and grabs his dick, just this side of too hard, works his thumb over the ring through the head and quivers with the sensation.

There’s a rough scraping sound, his breastplate grinding against the countertop every time your thrusts rock him into it. Faintly, you hear one of his companions, the little drow, argue with the ghast downstairs—she probably heard him yowl. You couldn’t care less, so you don’t bring it to Dread’s attention. The noises of his companions are irrelevant. All that matters is the smack of your hips against his ass, the desperate flick of his hand over his dick, the almost-agonised, wet vocalisations that he fails to stifle against his arm.

He’s a beautiful, incoherent mess under you, trembling with need, wracked with the sensation. You lick another stripe up his neck, flare your nose to savour the smell of his desperation.

“Come for me, pet,” you murmur, an almost hypnotic edge to your voice. It won’t charm him, not as shadow-touched and fey-inured as he is, but the command drags him closer to the edge regardless. “Come on my cock. Let me feel your pleasure.”

“Faltrax,” Dread gasps, his voice faltering, then words fail him and he just keens these weak, overwhelmed sounds as he comes hard. His entire limp body seizes up for long heartbeats, quakes with the intensity of it; he’s rocked with the throes of his pleasure and you feel every clench of it, fuck him through it steady and thorough, drag it out. You milk him for all he’s worth, until his keens turn into broken whimpers, until he twitches and squirms with overstimulation. And then you use his limp, spent body to chase your own pleasure, rock into him a scant handful of times and fill him with your come, your lips on his neck and your claws in his hip as you let your pleasure crest and wash through you like a wave.

Dread whines feelingly when you slowly pull out of him. His blood stains your pelvis, your claw-marks on his skin. You smooth your fingers into human fingertips again, keep a hold of him—doesn’t look like he can hold up his own weight right now. He’s slumped on the countertop heavy.

“Fuck,” he says, feelingly, his voice cracked. You grin and go to one knee behind him, inspect the gaping, dripping wreck you’ve made of him.

“What a mess I’ve made,” you purr, spread him with your thumbs.

“Fuuuck,” groans Dread, but his hips tilt up weakly. So you lean in, drag your devil-tongue from his balls to his hole and lick the spend off him, hot as a brand against his skin. He twitches hard when you press a thumb along his taint, cusses you out under his breath in some foreign language, and you push him through another graduation of pleasure, eat him out with a focused gusto until he shakes apart under you again. He doesn’t get it up, not so quick, not so soon, and you don’t lay a single finger on his dick, but the crest of pleasure wrecks him all the same, inexorably dragged out of him by your fingers and tongue.

When you’re done with that, you lick up the blood-smears on his ass, too, and the stains on your fingers. The sharp, metallic tang cuts through the filmy taste of oil. By the time you’re done, Dread’s legs have stopped shaking. You didn’t drain him, but regardless, you feel satiated and content, full with his need and his submission. There’s nothing like having a killer bare his throat for you.

“I’m a mess,” Dread croaks and manages to drag his trousers up. He shuffles over, sits heavy on the block of rubble you perched on earlier and winces.

“You’re welcome,” you purr and wipe your hips clean, politely tuck your cock back into your scanty excuse for clothes. He, from some divine-tinged, dark place inside him, wrestles some healing energy into his body, closes up the cuts. Faint lines remain, only enough healing used to close the skin, absolutely nothing done about the mark of your mouth on his neck. A giddy thread of possessive satisfaction runs through you. Dread, in his bedroll at night, hand over the marks on his neck, recalling how you choked him on your cock while he gets himself off, that desperate plea to be used begging in his scent? Yes _please_.

You focus back on the present before you decide to pounce on him for a second round, see Dread wipe himself off with a cloth before he buckles his leathers and belts his tassets back in place. 

“Almost presentable,” you tell him. The look he gives you when you cross over is strange—the remnant of his open, vulnerable expression fades, the gleam of his eyes dulls back into the snarky, cold façade he greeted you with. You persevere and run a hand through his hair until it no longer looks tousled from sex but that pretentious artful messy-on-purpose look that he favours. By the time you’re done, he’s slipped back into his persona completely. That is, completely except for the scent. His soul is more present in his body than you’ve sensed it before, grounded and firm now, and the satisfaction sits just under his limbs like a snug second skin. It’s mouthwatering.

“Very sweet,” he scoffs and bats your hand aside, all bluster and bravado again. “Well, that was fun, but I gotta go and let Sy see that I’m still alive before she has Feng rip my ghast’s head off. Or yours, for that matter.”

“I’d prefer it on my shoulders. Where would I be without this handsome face? I’d quite struggle to do my job,” you banter back, easy and breezy. His affectation of coldness is almost perfect.

Almost. But you’ve had your claws in him now. And like a satisfying opium trip, he’ll get to craving it soon enough. You watch him descend with only the slightest limp and lick your lips, already sparking with hunger for when he comes crawling back for more.

**Author's Note:**

> The Lore Infodump:  
> Dread is a shadar-kai, a rare subrace of elf that mostly dwells in a plane of existence called the Shadowfell and worships the Raven Queen, a memory-collecting, possibly insane deity of death and passing.  
> Because the shadar-kai are from this dark, decaying plane and the Raven Queen lays claim to all their souls, many of them are afflicted with a soul-sickness called the shadow curse. This curse makes their soul only loosely bound to their body and has it constantly attempting to go back to the Shadowfell, which if complete would transform them into undead horrors or leave wraiths in their place. One of the ways they try to counteract this pull is through extreme lifestyles—hence Dread's penchant for hardcore body modification (tattoos in really painful places, dick piercings etcetera) and masochism.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, I'd appreciate you taking a second to leave a comment.


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